Rex Stout - Method Three for Murder

“Why isn’t she out on bail?” Judy Bram demanded. “I want to know why—”

“That will do,” Wolfe snapped. “You’re here to listen, Miss Bram, and if you don’t hold your tongue Mr. Goodwin will drag you out. If necessary Mr. Stebbins will help.”

“But why—”

“No! One more word and out you go.”

She set her teeth on her lip and glared at him. He glared back, decided she was squelched, and left her.

“I am acting,” he said, “jointly with Mr. Goodwin, on behalf of Miss Holt. At our persuasion she has just told Mr. Cramer of her movements last evening. I’ll sketch them briefly. Shortly after seven-thirty she took Miss Bram’s cab and drove it to Ferrell Street and parked at the mouth of the alley leading to Mr. Kearns’s house. She expected him to appear but he didn’t. At eight-thirty she left the cab, went through the alley to the house, knocked several times, and looked in windows. Getting no response, she returned to the cab, having been gone about ten minutes. There was a dead body in the cab, a woman, and she recognized her. It was Phoebe Arden. I will not—”

“You fat fool!” Judy blurted. “You’re a fine—”

“Archie!” he commanded.

I stood up. She clamped her teeth on her lip. I sat down.

“I will not,” Wolfe said, “go into her thought processes, but confine myself to her actions. She covered the body with a piece of canvas and drove away. Her intention was to dispose of her cargo in some likely spot, and she drove around in search of one, but found none. I omit details — for instance, that she rang the number of Miss Bram from a phone booth and got no answer. She decided she must have counsel, drove to my house, met Mr. Goodwin on the stoop, and gave him a rigmarole about a bet she had made. Since he is vulnerable to the attractions of personable young women, he swallowed it.”

I swallowed that. I had to, with Cramer sitting there.

“Now,” Wolfe said, “a crucial fact. I learned it myself less than three hours ago. Only a few minutes after Miss Holt and Mr. Goodwin met on the stoop someone phoned police headquarters to say that a taxi standing in front of this address had a dead woman in it. That is—”

“Where did you get that?” Cramer demanded.

Wolfe snorted. “Pfui. Not from you or Mr. Stebbins. That is proof, to me conclusive, that the murderer of Phoebe Arden had no wish or need for her to die. Phoebe Arden was killed only because her corpse was needed as a tool for the destruction of another person — a design so cold-blooded and malign that even I am impressed. Whether she was killed in the cab, or at a nearby spot and the body taken to the cab, is immaterial. The former is more likely, and I assume it. What did the murderer do? He, or she — we lack a neuter pronoun — he entered the cab with Phoebe Arden the moment Miss Holt disappeared in the alley, coming from their hiding place in the stoneyard across the street. Having stabbed his victim — or rather his tool — he walked up Ferrell Street and around the corner to where his car was parked on Carmine Street. Before going to his car he stood near the corner to see if Miss Holt, on returning to the cab, removed the body before driving away. If she had, he would have found a booth and phoned police headquarters immediately.”

Cramer growled, “What if Kearns had come out with Miss Holt?”

“He knew he wouldn’t. I’ll come to that. You are assuming that Kearns was not the murderer.”

“I am assuming nothing.”

“That’s prudent. When Miss Holt turned the cab into Carmine Street and drove on, he followed her. He followed her throughout her search for a place to get rid of the corpse, and on to her final destination, this house. Some of my particulars are assumption or conjecture, but not this one. He must have done so, for when she stopped here he drove on by, found a phone booth, and made the call to the police. The only other possible source of the call was a passerby who had seen the corpse in the cab as it stood at the curb, and a passerby couldn’t have seen it without opening the door and lifting the canvas.” His eyes went to Cramer. “Of course that hadn’t escaped you.”

Cramer grunted.

Wolfe turned a hand over. “If his objective was the death of Phoebe Arden, why didn’t he kill her in the stoneyard — they must have been there, since there is no other concealment near — and leave her there? Or if he did kill her there, which is highly unlikely, why did he carry or drag the body to the cab? And why, his objective reached, did he follow the cab in its wanderings and at the first opportunity call the police? I concede the possibility that he had a double objective, to destroy both Miss Arden and Miss Holt, but if so Miss Holt must have been his main target. To kill Miss Arden, once he had her in the stoneyard with a weapon at hand, was simple and involved little risk; to use her body as a tool for the destruction of Miss Holt was a complicated and daring operation, and the risks were great. I am convinced that he had a single objective, to destroy Miss Holt.”

“Then why?” Cramer demanded. “Why didn’t he kill her? ”

“I can only conjecture, but it is based on logic. Because it was known that he had reason to wish Miss Holt dead, and no matter how ingenious his plan and adroit its execution, he would have been suspected and probably brought to account. I have misstated it. That’s what he did. He devised a plan so ingenious that he thought he would be safe.”

Purley Stebbins got up, circled around the red leather chair, and stood at Waldo Kearns’s elbow.

“No, Mr. Stebbins,” Wolfe said. “Our poor substitute for a neuter pronoun is misleading. I’ll abandon it. If you want to guard a murderer stand by Mrs. Irving.”

Knowing that was coming any second, I had my eye on her. She was only four feet from me. She didn’t move a muscle, but her husband did. He put a hand to his forehead and squeezed. I could see his knuckles go white. Mira’s eyes stayed fixed on Wolfe, but Judy and Kearns turned to look at Mrs. Irving. Stebbins did too, but he didn’t move.

Cramer spoke. “Who is Mrs. Irving?”

“She is present, sir.”

“I know she is. Who is she?”

“She is the wife of the man whom Miss Holt called on the phone Sunday evening to tell him that she was going to take Miss Bram’s cab, and why. Mr. Irving has stated that he told no one of that call. Either he lied or his wife eavesdropped. Mr. Irving. Might your wife have overheard that conversation on an extension?”

Irving’s hand left his forehead. He lowered it slowly until it touched his knee. I had him in profile. A muscle at the side of his neck was twitching. “To say that she might,” he said slowly and precisely, as if he only had so many words and didn’t want to waste any, “isn’t saying that she did. You have made a shocking accusation. I hope—” He stopped, leaving it to anybody’s guess what he hoped. He blurted. “Ask her!”

“I shall. Did you, madam?”

“No.” Her deep, strong voice needed more breath behind it. “Your accusation is not only shocking, it’s absurd. I told Mr. Goodwin what I did last evening. Hasn’t he told you?”

“He has. You told him that your husband had been prevented by a business emergency from keeping a dinner and theater engagement with you, and you had phoned Phoebe Arden to go in his stead, and she agreed. When she didn’t appear at the restaurant you rang her number and got no answer, and then went to another restaurant to eat alone, presumably one where you are not known and plausibly would not be remembered. After waiting for her at the theater until after nine o’clock you left a ticket for her at the box office and went in to your seat. That sounds impressive, but actually it leaves you free for the period that counts, from half past seven until well after nine o’clock. Incidentally, it was a mistake to volunteer that account of your movements, so detailed and precise. When Mr. Goodwin reported it to me I marked you down as worthy of attention.”